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BY 

L. M. GLENN 



Furman University 
Greenville, S. C. 
1908 



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LiBRARYof CONGRESS 
Two CcDies Received 


FEB 13 1809 


Copyrisnt Entry 
CLASS ^0* 


COPY 


Copyright 1909 
By L. M. Glenn 


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San Francisco, Cal., 

July 8, 1933. 

Dr. J. R. Geiger, 

President Stetson University, 

De Land, Fla. 

My Dear “Runt’’: 

Forsooth, my dear old gal, there 
is not much in a name; for from the 
right lofty salutation of this letter I 
come tumbling down the dizzy flights 
of your career, and dub you with that 
wonderful appellation which you bore 
with such noble, Christian fortitude in 
days of “ye longe ago.” 

And what a troop of Knights of 
Thought come surging through the 
halls of Memory’s sacred castle as I 
lower the drawbridge of sweet Remi- 
niscence over the billowy moat of fast- 


HARKING BACK 


flowing Time. And right unwillingly, 
too, do I hearken to the challenging 
call of the bold knight. Sir Reflection. 
But I know I am not prepared to with- 
stand a siege; for I find, as I grow 
older, that those defenses of “matter- 
of-factness” which I have thrown up 
against the onslaughts of Sentiment’s 
sable-robed hosts grow weaker, and 
sometimes, ere I am aware of it, the 
subtle enemy has broken over my 
crumbling ramparts and I awake to 
find myself a prisoner of King Senti- 
mentalist and all his vast array of the 
Bitter-Sweet. And then, not until I 
have paid the ransoming heartache, or 
sigh, or tear, am I free from his gloomy 
citadel. 

Old gal, you can’t imagine what pro- 
found pleasure it gives me to say to 


[ Page 10 ] 


HARKING BACK 


my friends that I was a classmate of 
Dr. Geiger, the great and good Presi- 
dent of Stetson University; and more, 
his roommate for one year. And just 
to think, the same four walls contained 
him and me at the same time. Those 
same old walls heard our hearts’ se- 
crets, our air-castle plans, our loves 
and our prayers — though mine were 
not so voluble and did not ring so 
true or soar so high heavenward as his. 
And I have seen this great man in all 
phases of domestic and public life; 
have seen him when dignity was to 
him a stranger; have seen him bathe 
his feet in the coal-scuttle; have been 
foraging with him at midnight into the 
kitchen stronghold; have seen him, in 
pink-striped nightshirt, . cut a somer- 
sault and light in bed. It all makes 


[ Page II ] 


HARKING BACK 


me feel that in some way I can at least 
lay a claim to fame. 

Geiger, old beau, I was not surprised 
when the Associated Press wired me 
the news of your election to the Presi- 
dency of Stetson. When I had finished 
my last editorial for “The Examiner” 
I went straight home and broke the 
joyful news to my wife. She was de- 
lighted and clapped her hands in such 

glee she waked up little hey there, 

old gal, I was about to forget to tell 
you, the little red-headed .dickens 
weighs eleven pounds and can out- 
squall a Sioux chief. My wife says he 
favors me, but I won’t stand for it, be 
it praise or slander. 

So that night after tea I took down 
my Tennyson and read myself to sleep. 
I dreamed of days of long ago. I 


[ Page 12 ] 


HARKING BACK 


awoke and thought of your greatness 
and remembered a prophecy I made 
once upon a time. It was back in dear 
old college days. You were in my 
room one morning just before chapel 
hour. I was feeling pretty “bum” at 
that particular time. I was enjoying 
that state of hilarity so characteristic 
of the cold, gray dawn of the “morning 
after.” And you were adding to the 
pleasure of my reverie by giving me a 
lecture on temperance. As I remem- 
ber now, I turned wearily to you and 
said, “Old gal, don’t you worry about 
me. It will all come out in the wash. 
I’ve never made a habit of it. It’s the 
first time since I’ve been in college, 
and it will be the last. And, by the 
gods ! I’ll be somebody yet. Some day 
when you get to be a big college presi- 


[ Page 13 ] 


HARKING BACK 


dent I’ll be editor of a great daily 
newspaper; and I’ll print a notice of 
your election in big letters on the front 
page of my paper, with a big cut of you 
accompanying the article.” I have 
mailed you a copy of “The Examiner” 
containing the prophecied and mate- 
rialized article. 

Say, what has become of old 
“Work”? The last I heard of him was 
through the columns of the “London 
Times.” The article said that he had 
been chosen one of ten delegates by 
the American Medical Association to 
the International Congress of Sur- 
geons and Physicians, to be held in 
Vienna the coming winter. Well, I 
knew it, I just knew it. 

As you remember, some of the boys 
used to paint pretty bad pictures of 


[Page 14] 


HARKING BACK 


old Work’s future; but I always be- 
lieved he would make good. You 
know, old gal, I think some of the boys 
at Furman didn’t give old Work credit 
for what was at the bottom of him. 
’Tis true he belonged to the “bird 
gang,” but underneath his feathers 
there beat a noble and courageous 
heart. Oh! yes, he was often peculiar 
in his actions; but no fault of his. For 
where is the man that has no faults? I 
rejoice to hear of his great success, and 
I am going to dash off a “swell” edito- 
rial on “America’s Representatives at 
the International Congress of Physi- 
cians and Surgeons,” and old Work 
shall receive full justice, I assure you. 

Say, old dog, do you remember that 
time he tumbled my bed, and in return 
I cleaned out his room from floor to 


[ Page 15 ] 


HARKING BACK 


ceiling — beds, trunks, tables, dresser, 
chairs, pictures, etc.? And that fin- 
ished, I hid these things in various 
parts of the dormitory and swept out 
his room and dusted the walls as a fin- 
ishing touch? Gee! I sure got next to 
him ! And from that day to this he has 
never molested my bed again. I am 
going to write to old Work real soon 
and ask him if he remembers those 
days of yore. How like a sweet dream 
of which only fragments are remem- 
bered; how like a withering flower by 
the wayside whose perfume has been 
stolen by passing breezes; how like a 
western heaven from whose ethereal 
canvas the glowing pigments have 
faded, are those days we spent to- 
gether, which I now in memory recall 
from over the wild waste of years! 


[ Page i6 ] 


HARKING BACK 


Well, old gal, it’s growing late now 
and all is becoming still. The ferry- 
boat whistles are silent, and this tells 
me that it is past midnight. So I am 
going to turn in and joust with old 
Morpheus. I wonder what you are 
doing now — fast a-snoozing I guess? 
Somehow or other, old boy, I feel 
young tonight. I feel as though we 
were back at Furman in old Montague 
Hall again. We are in old Bii with 
a pile of books before us on the table; 
and behind that stack of Shakespere 
I seem to see the countenance of Ben 
Geer lurking. It seems that he is say- 
ing to me, “Dig there, you red-headed 

but no, that’s not true. For 

Ben Geer never uttered a command. 
Ah, how I remember — but there now. 
Runt, I must close up. Little Dit- 


[Page 17] 


HARKING BACK 


tie Bootes is calling to me from his 
crib, “Hey, papa Dittie, lights out and 
a prow turned toward the bed.” Good- 
night. 


[ Page i8 ] 


HARKING BACK 


San Francisco, Cal., 

December 12, 1933. 

Hon. J. Wilbur Hicks, 

Speaker House of Representatives, 
Washington, D. C. 

My Dear Old “Stix” : 

When you and I were college- 
mates, my dear Stix, I remember at- 
tending a revival meeting at the old 
First Church. I was in no little agi- 
tation of spirit that night, for I was 
considering the proposition of taking a 
seat on the Band Wagon of the Saints, 
by the side of you and some of the 
other fellows. I finally clambered up 
to a seat, but later lost out, on account 
of not keeping my instrument in 
proper tune. I am happy to say. 


[ Page 19 ] 


HARKING BACK 


though, I have regained my seat and 
am beating the tambourine with great 
zest. 

But I must back to my subject. I 
remember hearing the parson say, in 
part, “Consider how a trivial incident 
often changes the whole after life of a 
man; even a little stone may turn the 
course of a mighty river by intercept- 
ing the tiny rill far back in the moun- 
tain glades.” Even so, dear Stix, 
an insignificant incident sometimes 
changes the course of one’s thought, 
too, and turns it into new or long- 
forsaken paths. Such has been mine 
tonight. An insignigficant occurrence 
— the finding of your grizzled visage 
upon a card-board in an ancient album 
— has turned my stream of thought 
into other paths. That single incident 


[ Page 20 ] 


HARKING BACK 


was the little stone that halted the 
trend of my stream of thought and 
turned it aside. 

But instead of the stream wending 
its way into a new channel, it found 
the dried-up course of other days. At 
first the stream pushed right tremu- 
lously into the forsaken channel, over- 
grown with the tangled vines of neg- 
lected remembrance, and filled with 
the moss-covered stones of long- 
forgotten episodes. As I grew more 
oblivious of the present the little 
stream trickled on, exploring old cav- 
erns of sorrow and rippling lightly 
over the golden sands of forgotten 
joys. Here the tiny brook met some 
moss-covered boulder which halted it 
in its course, but dampening the an- 
cient moss with its quivering flood of 


[ Page 21 ] 


HARKING BACK 


resurrecting thought, it passed on, and 
the boulder proved to be only some 
, forgotten experience. By and by the 
stream gathered volume and sped on, 
whispering soft notes of sentiment as 
it rippled over some cascade of be- 
dimmed pleasures. And gaining the 
valley at last in its hastening flight it 
found there broad fields of autumn- 
tinted recollections and lonely deserts 
of dead memories. The stream, how- 
ever, did not cower at this dread sight 
but pushed gallantly out into the mel- 
ancholy waste. 

And now, as a consequence of that 
misguided stream, the wastes of past 
years have been brought to life and 
made to blossom with the joy of sweet 
remembered associations. That silent 
desert of forgotten days is now a lux- 


[ Page 22 ] 


HARKING BACK 


uriant garden of green trees, bright 
flowers, singing birds, and dancing 
butterflies. And I stroll about over 
the soft grasses, and rest under the 
waving palms, and drink from bub- 
bling fountains, wandering ever in 
happy reminiscence of college days. 
Long after the sun has set and the lus- 
tre of stars beam softly above I love to 
linger here, drinking in the silvery 
strains of the nightingale and sighing 
sadly in memory of days that were. 

Well, Stix, I guess I had better get 
out of this vale of sentiment. But I 
love it. Alas, what secrets lie buried 
in the breast of the future ! I scarcely 
know what to expect. Who would 
have thought, twenty-five years ago, 
that old Stix would one day be Speaker 
of the House? I always thought you 


[ Page 23 ] 


HARKING BACK 


favored Joe Cannon, anyway. Well, 
old beau, I congratulate you. Don’t 
turn fool now and spoil it all; and be 
sure to “soak” it to Hon. Kermit 
Roosevelt every time you get a chance. 
Do it just for the sake of his old daddy, 
whom we used to cuss so in our politi- 
cal broils at Furman. 

Say, Stix, do you remember one 
bright, Sunday morning I came down 
to No. 14, arrayed in a brand-new 
dressing gown? And do you remem- 
ber both of you jumped on me (always 
two to one) and stripped me as nude as 
a jaybird, and then chased me upstairs? 
Oh ! I’ll get even with you yet. I’ll see 
that you never get in the race for Presi- 
dent. Say, Stix, ain’t you sorry you 
did it? 


[ Page 24 ] 


HARKING BACK 


Old dog, I had a great surprise the 
other day in way of a letter from old 
“Quiz.” As you know, he’s in China 
now in the missionary business. Well, 
the old guy got there at last and I am 
glad to know it. He has turned all yel- 
low now and has a “pigtail” hanging 
down his back; his eyes have assumed 
an oblique position and he can talk 
that heathen jargon like a Wu Ting 
Fang. Quiz was a great old fellow, 
but nature endowed him with too 
many faults. But his faults were 
mostly good ones. Quiz was too or- 
thodox' ; by golly ! he wouldn’t give the 
Devil a fair chance. He was so pious, 
the Old Boy was afraid to tackle him. 
But, as it is not my intention to find 
fault, I will pass on. However, Quiz’s 
one unpardonable fault was his ability 


[ Page 25 ] 


HARKING BACK 


to jump, tail foremost, at conclusions. 
He often annoyed me by his rash judg- 
ment and preconceived notions to such 
an extent I was tempted to give him a 
sound ‘‘cussing.” But that’s not an un- 
common fault of man. And I suppose 
Quiz was so sincere in everything the 
habit just grew into him. And be- 
sides, I believed he would get over it. 
Now, that he has gotten out into the 
world, I guess he has grown wiser; 
seeing that just a drachm of sin here 
and there in poor man’s nature is not 
wholly bad, and that in spite of our 
small measure of grace we are all, in 
the grand order of God’s loving ways, 
somehow good. But, as I have said, 
old Quiz was rock-bottom and true- 
blue; and if ever it falls to mortals to 
be crowned with a diadem of stars in 


[ Page 26 ] 


HARKING BACK 


that great kingdom to come old Quiz 
will be there to receive a big, bright 
one. 

Well, good-bye, old beau; write to 
me some time. Give my regards to 
Mrs. Hicks and pat little “J- on 
the head for me. So long. 

P. S. — Had a card this morning an- 
nouncing the entrance upon the stage 
of Life of one J. Roy Geiger, Jr.; not 
larger than a doughnut, son and heir of 
our illustrious classmate, “Runt.” 


[ Page 27 ] 


HARKING BACK 


Louisville, Ky., 
November 14, 1934. 

Rev. J. R. Quisenberry, LL. D., 

Sup’t American Mission Stations, 
Ramrie, Burma, India. 

My Dear “Quiz”: 

On the lawn just before my 
library window stands a majestic tree, 
tall, gnarled, massive-limbed, and 
hoary with lichen growth. It is in the 
sad hush of autumn now, and the 
sweet birds of summer have forsaken 
their accustomed choir in the knotted 
branches. My old tree is silent now 
and the lisping songsters have winged 
their flight to sunnier climes. And 
there, where it is spring, sunshine and 
joy forever, they warble away the brief 


[ Page 28 ] 


HARKING BACK 


span of their little lives, lending a 
touch of cheer to a sad, cold world and, 
I hope, at last themselves dying happy. 
The leaves have all lost their green, 
and as the chill of autumn creeps down 
from the north they sigh a sad farewell 
to the old nurse of summer days 
and silently fall from the weeping 
branches, to find rest in the arms of 
Mother Earth. 

Quiz, as I sit musing by the fireside 
and watch the leaves on my old tree 
loose their hold, and see them caught 
up by passing winds and scattered 
hither and thither, I am reminded of a 
period of my life now far gone. In 
some way I have pictured that stately 
old tree as our dear Alma Mater, and 
the leaves as those that come to and 
go from its hallowed walls. The 


[ Page 29 ] 


HARKING BACK 


gnarled oak, like our Alma Mater, has 
battled against the raging elements for 
many years, and will yet, I trust, see 
the birth and death of many seasons. 
But we are as the leaves that came so 
“green” and departed so “ripe.” We 
lingered for a brief season and then at 
the commencement of our graduation 
year the chill winds of the world’s stern 
reality came sweeping by and we were 
torn from the embrace of our tender 
nurse and scattered hither and thither 
upon a dark, frowning world. 

The summer sun warms us, the win- 
ter snows chill us, and counter winds 
gather us up, and we are blown — 
whither? Some of us meet again and 
rejoice; some of us never meet again, 
but rejoice in one another’s memory; 
and some of us neither meet again nor 


[ Page 30 ] 


HARKING BACK 


remember one another. Alas ! how 
sad that some did so little during our 
college course and were so disinter- 
ested in affairs, other than mere class- 
room work, that the lapse of just twen- 
ty-six brief years has erased every 
trace of their memory from our minds ! 

I have recently received a report of 
a meeting of the Alumni of Furman. 
In this little booklet is given, as nearly 
accurate as possible, a brief mention 
of the doings of the class of 1909. Tak- 
ing it for granted that you would be 
interested in the careers of your class- 
mates, I am going to mention such of 
those as you do not already know 
something about. 

Of course, you remember old Jerry 
Barton. Jerry is the fellow who used 
to ring the bell. By George ! I can see 


[ Page 31 ] 


HARKING BACK 


him now hanging on that bell-rope like 
a chimpanzee on a bamboo. Well, 
Jerry is now President of the North 
Greenville High School. That insti- 
tution has grown into a most formi- 
dable citadel of knowledge under his 
guidance. Rufie Barton, as some dub- 
bed that illustrious knight on the field 
of those olden days, is revealing the 
treasures of the Holy Writ to the deni- 
zens of the Dark Corner. Deacon 
Cogburn and Wash Pinson, I under- 
stand, have taken to the missionary 
enterprise, and are now gleaning some- 
where in the ripening harvest. Deacon 
is trampling down the sands where 
Confucius hath trod, while Wash is 
leading the forlorn hope of civilization 
into the wilds of Africa. And while I 
am in this vein of the celestials, I am 


[ Page 32 ] 


HARKING BACK 


reminded that S. L. Watson is expos- 
tulating with the Cannibal gentry of 
Barneo as to why they should serve 
fried chicken rather than human steak 
when entertaining him under their 
star-studded roof. 

Our class is also honored in two 
knights of the operating table. B. B. 
Earle and Hawkins are both located in 
Atlanta and have good practices. But 
behold! there are yet more. Ben Lan- 
caster and Shorty Martin are profes- 
sors, respectively, in the S. C. C. I. and 
the State University of Arkansas. And 
there is a Solon, too, numbered among 
those that departed from old Furman 
in 1909. Ezell is practicing law in Ten- 
nessee, and from all reports is very 
successful. This, I believe, leaves only 


[Page 33] 


HARKING BACK 


one more. Hassie Earle is City Engi- 
neer of Colon, Panama. 

I suppose it is hardly necessary for 
me to write you anything concerning 
George Rice. I take it for granted you 
two still perpetuate ancient ties. I was 
recently in Virginia on business. I 
stopped over at the University of Vir- 
ginia and, lo! whom should I meet 
with but old “Cotton-Top” — athletic 
director at that institution. George 
was in great spirits over a recent vic- 
tory in football. His squad had swept 
the Cornell bunch clear off the grid- 
iron. George is extremely popular 
among the students, and what time he 
is not with his wife he is among the 
champions of the athletic field, urging 
them on to greater victories. I made 
him promise to pay me a visit next 


[Page 34] 


HARKING BACK 


summer, and I am looking forward 
with great pleasure to the event. 

Rejoice, and be exceeding glad, old 
Quiz. This day I am printing in the 
“Courier-Journal” a 5x8 cut of one of 
our classmates, and a three-column 
story of his appointment as Ambassa- 
dor to Germany. Lo! what will the 
morrow bring? I confess I am so grat- 
ified by this news I can scarcely con- 
tain myself. But perhaps you are anx- 
ious to know his name. Well, I am 
happy to say it is our good friend, R. 
E. Allen. What an honor it is to claim 
such illustrious men as friends and col- 
lege-mates. I am not surprised, how- 
ever, for R. E. was a brilliant fellow in 
college, and I always counted on great 
things for him. 


[ Page 35 ] 


HARKING BACK 


Well, Quiz, old beau, it is now grow- 
ing late and the gentle folds of sleep 
beckon me to their sweet embrace. 
Within a few minutes I shall be in the 
realms of oblivion, and, as I wander 
lightly through the glades of slumber, 
may some beauteous dream of other 
times visit my pillow and cause me to 
live again amid the scenes of those 
joyous college days. Good-night. 


[ Page 36 ] 


HARKING BACK 


San Francisco, Cal., 

January 4, 1934. 

Dr. J. E. Brunson, 

Editor The Outlook, 

New York, N. Y. 

My Dear “Eddie”: 

Just after tea I repaired to the 
library for the express purpose of pe- 
rusing the current volume of your 
great contribution to American litera- 
ture, and, judging from the first two 
volumes of the series, I am electrified 
with anticipation of the pleasures that 
await me in this third volume. I trust 
that “The Rain of Swords” will not 
only meet with the approval of the 
American public, of which I am confi- 
dent, but will strike the keynote of ap- 


[Page 37] 


HARKING BACK 


preciation in foreign centers of learn- 
ing. 

But alack! My dear Brunson, just 
as I would seize my paper-knife to cut 
the first page in comes “meine frau,” 
all aglow with plans for our silver wed- 
ding celebration. I bore with her, stoic 
fashion, until she turned to leave me 
(sweet heaven, may she never, in real- 
ity!), and then I called for my instru- 
ments of smoking. And, as she always 
does, she didn’t fail to give me a jab in 
the ribs respecting the pernicious 
habit. “Ah ! Dittie, will you never get 
enough of your sublime weed?” Now, 
mark that epithet, Eddie — “sublime 
weed.” Where have I heard that 
phrase before? You remember, don’t 
you? Well, the falling of that phrase 


[Page 38] 


HARKING BACK 


upon my ear necessitates my laying 
aside your book until another time. 

And so I am smoking and dream- 
ing the lull of eventide away, my dear 
Eddie. My purpose this evening is to 
traverse the gulf of ^ time and revel in 
the courts of days that are no more. 
And, as I cannot cross that abyss in 
person, I can cross over that great void 
by means of a figure and revel in the 
haven of my choice. Now behold the 
figure. Sir Edwin. I will place all con- 
sciousness of the present — which is 
the “sublime weed” — in my pipe, the 
altar of sacrifice. I will light this with 
the fire of imagination and such an 
atonement as I will offer up for my 
neglect to meditate over these olden 
times. Now as I light the tobacco and 
it changes itself into smoke and floats 


[Page 39] 


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away, even so do I resolve this pres- 
ent consciousness into reminiscent 
smoke, hoping that some gentle breeze 
of passion will waft it back over this 
chasm of time and let it hover in fond- 
ness over the scenes of college days. 

Ah, there it goes! With the first 
puff of that fragrant weed my mind 
seems to leap from all bonds of the 
present and mount the wings of the 
wind. Back, back it speeds into the 
realms of forgotten joys, peopling the 
shadowy glades of long-sped days with 
the living forms of friends and college- 
mates.. Here it touches some dimly- 
remembered episode and there bursts 
into memory a glorious reality of 
pleasant but far-gone times. Now it 
hovers about the bier of some forgot- 
ten sorrow and a grinning ghost, in 


[Page 40] 


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sable pall, glides before my sight. But 
I am happy to say that I have remem- 
brance of far more joy than sorrow of 
those four golden years. 

Say, Eddie, tell me how I shall ad- 
dress a letter to old “C. E.” Of course 
I know he is a fellow of mathematics 
in Oxford, but how shall I address him 
that I may rest assured he will receive 
my letter? You know it is now five 
years since I have heard from him. 
Well, old “C. E.” was a great fellow. 
I suppose he now has a mass of curly 
hair on his head, wears glasses, is tall 
and slender, and calls out to the stu- 
dents as they enter his lecture-room, 
“Ha! ha! young gentleman. Yes, sir; 
yes, sir, walk right in, sir. Ha! ha! 
Good morning, come right in, sir.” Do 
you catch the point, Edwin? So far 


[ Page 41 ] 


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as courtesy is concerned, Professor 
Earle was the Sir Launcelot of the fac- 
ulty. 

Eddie, I wonder if you keep up your 
experiments in chemistry now-a-days? 
I remember how your room used to 
resemble Faust’s laboratory. Do you 
remember one bright Sunday morning, 
in May of 1908, you pounded early and 
most vigorously on my door in quest 
of a hatchet. Runt Geiger answered 
the call, and, as I now remember, the 
conversation ran thus : 

“Eddie, what in the mischief do you 
want with a hatchet?” 

“Ah! shucks, beau, I want to chop 
up some zinc.” 

“Slush! what are you going to do 
with zinc, Eddie?” 


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“Oh! golly, beau, I want to make 
zinc-sulphate.” 

“Zinc-sulphate?” 

“Slush! yes.” 

“Today?” 

“Yes; why?” 

“Thought you were going to 
church?” 

“Oh ! good golly, beau, good-bye ; 
that’s out of my line.” 

And away you went to make zinc- 
sulphate on that bright Sunday morn- 
ing. 

I wonder, too, if you remember a 
certain night old Joe King locked Runt 
out and wouldn’t let him in. Runt 
tried in vain to effect an entrance, but 
neither might nor stealth were of avail. 
And Runt labored furiously on. After 
Runt had broken out a transom you 


[Page 43] 


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came upon the scene and, taking a 
hasty view of the field of action, de- 
parted. In a short time you reap- 
peared, bearing proudly in your arms 
a chemical fire-extinguisher. This you 
delivered over to Runt, with explicit 
directions as how to operate it. Old 
Runt mounted a trunk and placed the 
nozzle through the broken transom. 
Then while you stood at a safe dis- 
tance, like a prudent field-marshal, and 
directed the working of that formida- 
ble weapon. Runt sprayed old Joe 
with the extinguisher until he was 
forced to beat a hasty retreat into his 
closet. 

Well, I did not follow the details of 
the siege, but I remember the terms of 
capitulation. Old Joe demanded that 
Runt should seek out six fellows with 


[Page 44] 


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lusty lungs to sue for pardon. Runt 
soon assembled his ambassadors, and 
lining them up abreast, before old Joe’s 
door, they began the plea for Runt’s 
pardon. As you remember Runt was 
something of a choir master. Well, 
these six fellows had to sing the plea, 
“Joe, oh Joe! grant that Runt may en- 
ter in at thy bower portal,” one at a 
time and then en masse. This was 
sung to the tune of “Cornin’ Thro’ the 
Rye.” You know Joe was fond of 
“Rye.” The last I saw of the memora- 
ble siege Runt was dressed in his pink 
nightshirt and directing his choir of 
ambassadors with great zest. 

But enough of this now, Eddie. I 
fear I have shocked your scholarly na- 
ture by such idle talk. But you know, 
Eddie, I sometimes feel so boyish that 


[Page 45] 


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in spite of my forty-six years I love to 
indulge in these thoughts of college 
days. I promise you that I will read 
your book tomorrow evening. Good- 
night. 


[Page 46] 


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Louisville, Ky., 
February 25, 1935. 

Dr. Charles E. Richardson, 

Prof. Mathematics, Oxford University, 
Cambridge, England. 

My Dear “C. E.”: 

As I sit tonight and contemplate 
that vast waste of waters that sepa- 
rates you and me, I am prone to think 
of that span of time, that separates us 
from the time we were boys together, 
as some such waste. What storms of 
trouble have swept in fury ; what calms 
of peace have settled in stillness; what 
gallant ships of hope have sailed ; what 
gaunt derelicts of disappointment have 
gone down on that billowy stretch. 
’Tis true, some of us have not piloted 


[Page 47] 


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our crafts to such goodly havens as we 
might, but I am inclined to feel that 
whatsoever harbor one has gained by 
dint of honest endeavor that goal is 
best. For if we all sailed to the self- 
same port some poor wretch would be 
left standing on another shore, waving 
the signal of distress to an unanswer- 
ing sea. How good, then, that our great 
Captain has given to some one talent 
and to others five talents. Thus, since 
I have sailed my craft into a lowly 
port, and brought good to one meaner 
than those who throng the shores of 
the high ports to which you and others 
of my classmates have sailed, I am 
content to strike my sails at last and 
drift into the Master’s great port, feel- 
ing that I have been a pilot favorable 
in His sight. 


[ Page 48 ] 


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In a recent number of The Outlook 
I read a sketch of the great institution 
with which you are connected. The 
article in question was from the facile 
pen of my friend and contemporary, 
Eddie Brunson. It has been my pur- 
pose to write you for some weeks, but 
it seems every time I have a spare eve- 
ning in comes my good wife with plans 
for our taking tea with some goodly 
neighbor. And then does the martyr 
don his evening clothes and set out for 
the scene of torture. My wife never 
fails to jab me in the ribs and exact 
a promise from me that I will treat our 
hostess, Mrs. Nailor, with civility. But 
oh, that old weather-beaten she-dragon 
is a pest. I wish you could meet her. 
Gee! she has the right name — except 
she is a “Nail-her” instead of a “Nail- 


[Page 49] 


HARKING BACK 


or.” For gosh! she does “nail” the 
good sisters of the commonwealth. I 
sometimes wonder if she doesn’t “nail” 
some of the hes too. And if she does, 
I can see myself now nailed to the 
cross of her gossip. 

Or perhaps, instead of the plans of 
my wife, in comes bold Sir L. M. Glenn 
the Second, all furious with lust for 
war and in dire need of a charger pow- 
erful. Then must the proud daddy 
bend his weary form on all-fours and 
bear this young Galahad in quest of 
false knight, Paynim horde, or terrible 
dragon. C. E., I want to offer you a 
bit of friendly advice — pray the good 
Stork to drop girl babies down your 
chimney ; this young barbarian will yet 
be my death. 


[ Page 50 ] 


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But no, C. E., I am not sorry that 
my only child is a mischievous little 
boy. God bless my darling boy! For 
I know that these same chubby hands 
that now plough their way through my 
shock of hair, and cause me agony, will 
some day toil for my welfare when I 
am old and go tottering through the 
autumn of life. And he will some day 
stand by my easy chair and, while his 
heated breath is gently caressing the 
thin gray strands of my weary brow, 
he will whisper in my ear, “My father, 
I love you so.’’ These little fingers 
that now clutch blindly at mine will 
some day close the cold lids over my 
glazed eyes. And these fat little arms 
that now encircle papa’s neck will 
some day lay me reverently in my cold 
grave. And when I have sailed away 


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on the darkling flood he will isle my 
barge in the mist-hung offlng, and 
these little eyes that now beam with 
mischief will drop tears in memory of 
me. Ah! C. E., I love my boy; I tell 
you what, I love him. 

Well, C. E., I must tell you of the 
Furman Alumni meeting I attended 
last spring. It was the first sight of 
the place I had had in 26 years, and of 
course I was lost. I recognized very 
few landmarks. I will not go into de- 
tails about the meeting — just one inci- 
dent I wish to relate. 

We were all assembled in the audi- 
torium of the B. E. Geer Hall of Indus- 
trial Arts. It was the day of dedica- 
tion for this new structure. I suppose 
the house will seat some 2,000 people. 
Well, the hall was packed to overflow- 


[ Page 52 ] 


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ing and we were all waiting for some- 
thing to turn up. All of a sudden a 
signal, seemingly, put a death-like still- 
ness upon the chattering audience. 
There was a stir at one of the en- 
trances and the throng gathered there 
parted. At the same time a small com- 
pany marched down the aisle toward 
the rostrum. The house remained si- 
lent. There was another stir at the 
door and a slight, erect, gray-haired, 
old gentleman emerged from the 
crowd and started down the aisle. An 
awful hush brooded over the audience, 
like the lull before a storm, and then 
that vast crowd burst into such a deaf- 
ening ovation as never before fell on my 
ears. But that grand old man moved 
on as unconcerned as though he were 


[ Page 53 ] 


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strolling through a summer wood. 
Two young professors assisted him up 
the rostrum steps. When he had 
gained the middle of the rostrum he 
paused; turned slowly about; a smile 
played about the corners of his finely 
cut mouth; the light of heaven was in 
his face; his clear blue eyes twinkled 
with joy; he cast a rapid glance over 
the audience, and then bowed low. A 
roar of applause followed this, and as 
the old gentleman moved toward his 
seat a magnificent orchestra raised the 
Alma Mater. C. E., can you guess 
who the old gentleman was? Of 
course you know. He had given that 
magnificent hall to the University out 
of his own substance. He was the Sir 
Galahad of the faculty in our day ; he is 
now the second Dr. Judson of Furman; 


[ Page 54 ] 


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he was then, now is, and always will be 
just — Ben Geer. 

It’s late now, old boy, so I am going 
to close up. Good-bye. 


[ Page 55 ] 


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Chicago, 111 ., 
February 4, 1937. 

Admiral S. Haddon Geer, U. S. N., 
Manila, P. I. 

My Dear Haddon: 

There’s a lullaby in the sighing 
of the winter wind that appeals in 
some mysterious way to an old man, 
and he longs to bow his whitening 
head in slumber sweet and dream of 
wandering in sunny climes of days 
now forever sped. The years have 
dealt tenderly with me and my heart 
still beats with the vigor of youth. My 
cup is full of the sweets that come like 
a benedictory draught to soothe the 
spirit of an aging man. I have lived 
my life well and the future holds no 


[ Page 56 ] 


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fears for me. But I will cease this 
doleful strain and play a lighter tune. 
There’s a time of life when the heart- 
strings are a lute, and the melody 
thereof is sweeter than the aria of that 
first dawn when the morning stars sang 
together and the sons of God shouted 
for joy. And, as that time of life is 
youth, I will take up the golden harp 
and smite on its sweetest cords with 
might. 

My wife tells me that she is writing 
to Mrs. Geer tonight. This being the 
case, I have decided to write Daddy 
Haddon just for the sake of “Auld 
Lang Syne.” And I have proposed 
that we see who can write the “foxiest” 
letter. Of course my wife will treat 
different subjects from those I am go- 
ing to handle; but anyway, we have 


[ Page 57 ] 


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determined to lay aside old age and 
dignity and turn young again just for 
tonight. I imagine my wife will dis- 
cuss plans for some mother’s club or 
else devise schemes for bringing 
“hubby” home early of nights. Just 
so sure as I am detained at the office 
later than my accustomed hour she 
vows right off that I have been writing 
love ditties to some pretty wench in- 
stead of editorials for the morrow’s 
paper. She is not at all jealous- 
hearted, and I think she says those 
things just to tease me. But anyway, 
our home life is perfection itself. If 
anything, our love grows stronger day 
by day, if such thing is possible. So 
my sleep is not at all disturbed by vis- 
ions of the divorce court. Gee! I had 
to work too hard to get her; and I am 


[ Page 58 ] 


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sure the sea holds no other fish like 
her. If I thought it did I would write 
to our friend, Dr. Workman, and tell 
him to go fishing. 

Well, Haddon, how many young 
“jackies” have you in your home that 
I may offer my condolences to? (Don’t 
let Mrs. Geer see this.) I know you 
must be tired of so much of this, but 
you know when we were boys we said 
we would do just such things as I am 
now doing. Are they all boys or girls 
or are they variated? And what prin- 
ciple do you follow in rearing them? 
I remember saying that just as soon as 
my little fellow began to exhibit the 
traits of his daddy I was going to bring 
forth the rod and spare it not. But, 
Haddon, old boy, I just can’t do it to 
save my life. Just so sure as I frown up 


[ Page 59 ] 


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and reach for the rod the little fellow 
will look up sweetly into my face and 
babble, “Now, papa Dittie, mama says 
you used to be a bird, too.” And then 
I snatch the little rascal up and cover 
his little face with kisses. Oh, Truth ! 
thou doth soften the heart. Eh? 

Say, Haddon, rememberest thou this 
phrase, “Hey there, pass around six 
more, please.” Gee! I shall never for- 
get that memorable occasion. Oh ! 
well, I guess we had better forget that 
day and think on goodlier things. 

By the way, I had a long letter from 
old Squirt Lanford several weeks 
ago. Squirt tells me that he is presi- 
dent of three other banks in the State 
of Missouri besides the Fourth Na- 
tional in Kansas City. And I have 
heard from other sources that his for- 


[ Page 6o ] 


HARKING BACK 


tunes are fast climbing to the million- 
dollar mark. Well, I always believed 
it of him and am not at all surprised. 
Squirt was telling me how well pleased 
he was with his business, and how 
sweet his home life was, and what a 
fond father he had become. But I read 
between the lines on this point. He 
says to me, “Dittie, old boy, I have 
seventeen so far, but dare not make 
any forecasts. I am very proud of my 
brood and always thought them a good- 
looking set. But, bless my soul, a con- 
founded old maid, living next door, 
said the other day, ‘Oh, dear! I think 
those Squirt kids are simply darling, 
but upon my word they remind me of 
Chinese.’ ” 

Well, old Squirt resented the good 
lady’s remark and swore that he would 


[ Page 6i ] 


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avenge the same. I can see him now 
returning home after a day’s work and 
stepping cautiously over the floor for 
fear of trampling on some sleeping 
member of his brood. Well, I’ll bet old 
Squirt is a dutiful husband and father. 
You know I am sorry old Squirt came 
so late into our class. But if any fel- 
low could have wound himself about 
the heartstrings of his classmates in 
less time than he I can’t imagine the 
one. I think old Squirt had one of the 
most lovable dispositions of any boy in 
college. 

H addon, old boy, I know I have the 
sweetest wife in the world. I some- 
times marvel that she ever consented to 
cast her lot with mine. For eighteen 
years now we have sailed the seas of 
matrimony, and a dream of bliss has 


[ Page 62 ] 


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been that voyage I have heard, in a 
round-about way, that she thinks I am 
the incarnation of the perfect in hus- 
bands. But heaven knows that if I have 
an ounce of worth in me, to her is due 
all the honor and praise. For it is by 
her faultless love for me that my life 
has been moulded into some shape 
worthy the name of man. Old beau, 
she is pure gold. 

“Dear eyes, dear eyes, and rare com- 
plete. 

Being heavenly sweet and earthly 
sweet, 

I marvel that God made you mine; 
For when He frowns ’tis then, ye 
shine.” 

Suppose I had better close up now 
and compare notes with her. Good- 
night. 


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Chicago, 111 ., 

July i8, 1937. 

Prof. C. M. Workman, M. D., 

Chair Gynecology and Abdominal 
Surgery, 

University of Nashville, 

Nashville Tenn. 

My Dear Old “Work”: 

There’s a gay little songster sit- 
ting amid the flowers on the veranda 
and singing as though his throat would 
burst. And this is not the first time, 
either, that I have heard him sing. 
With the coming of spring this tiny 
singer finds his way to my house, and 
then for a summer he sits and warbles 
through the live-long day. Sometimes 
he strikes a plaintive note and I feel 


[ Page 64 ] 


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a chill of sadness creep over me. Or 
again he bursts into an aria of tonal ex- 
quisiteness and my heart seems to leap 
with the song. Just why this little 
warbler should affect me with his mel- 
ody I don’t quite understand. But I 
believe it is because of the fact that I 
have conjured up a beautiful metaphor 
in the person of this sweet messenger. 

I was sitting in the sunshine of a 
spring morning when I first heard him. 
He perched on a rosebush near me 
and broke into my reverie with a flood 
of sweetest harmony. And as he sat 
there and piped, first in a joyful and 
then in a plaintive strain and brought 
alternately to my heart sunshine and 
shadow, I thought him the ghost of 
my college days come to hover about 
my soul. When he sang happiest I 


[ Page 65 ] 


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smiled and remembered some pleasant 
episode, but when he struck a plaintive 
strain I frowned and remembered 
some sad incident of those times. 

I cannot say but that I love this lit- 
tle messenger, for his store of happy 
songs outnumber the sad ones; and I 
am always ready to drift back and live 
in those days again. 

Well, Work, I heard from old Had- 
don a few days ago, and he is well 
pleased with the Philippines. He 
wrote very optimistically of the situa- 
tion there, and did not seem to think 
the Japanese were ready to attempt a 
seizure of the islands. And I don’t 
blame the little yellow- jackets either. 
For if they know Haddon as well as I 
do I think they would see the futility 
of scrapping with that gamecock. I 


[ Page 66 ] 


HARKING BACK 


am glad to see him in such a responsi- 
ble position and I am confident that our 
navy is in safe hands. 

I also had a letter from another 
classmate of ours. L. T. Rhodes is liv- 
ing in dear old South Carolina on a 
large tobacco plantation. He was re- 
cently elected President of the South- 
ern Tobacco Growers’ Association. I 
understand he has a monopoly of that 
industry in that State. Rhodes was 
a great fellow and I am sorry I did not 
learn to know him earlier than I did. 
But such is life ; we are like swine that 
root for corn and trample pearls be- 
neath our feet at the same time. 

Well, Work, how many glorious rec- 
ollections of our college days might I 
call to mind if I only had time. As I 
grow older my thoughts turn more and 


[ Page 67 ] 


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more to those years. Ah ! what 
golden years they were. How well 
I recollect the boys and our profes- 
sors. There is Professor Geer, to 
whom I often refer as the Great Eraser. 
For he more than any other man I 
know did more toward erasing the 
devil from my nature. When I came 
to Furman I was as big a devil as ever 
wandered in a howling wilderness. 
But as soon as I came under the in- 
fluence of that man the process of elim- 
ination set in. And then for four years 
the crooks and twists underwent a 
straightening. I came out at last, not 
wholly perfect, but with a far deeper 
insight into what it meant to be a 
Man. 

Well, Work, old beau, I feel that 
I have played my hand well in the 


[ Page 68 ] 


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great game of Life. I do not mean to 
say that I am satisfied with myself — 
oh ! never that. But I have made good 
in many ways. I have the sweetest 
wife and the dearest little boy in the 
world. I have made plenty of money. 
I have friends. I am not a stranger to 
fame. My profession has profited by 
my having worked honestly for its bet- 
terment. I have sought to make hu- 
manity happy. I have lived the good 
life. I think I may say the world is a 
mite better for my having lived in it. 
What more could man desire? But 
there now, I did not mean to toot my 
own horn. This just slipped out un- 
consciously. 

Say, Work, I have been thinking of 
a plan to bring our crowd together in 
one big gathering some time in the 


[ Page 69 ] 


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near future. What a joyous gathering 
that would be. I intend to begin let- 
ters to each member of our club right 
away, exhorting them to take some 
such action. Just thing of the crowd: 
President of several banks in Missouri 
and a millionaire, the President of Stet- 
son University, Admiral of the U. S. 
Navy, a professor in the University of 
Nashville, a district attorney of New 
York (Joe King), and your humble 
servant. Let’s get the thing up or 
“bust,” old boy. Good-bye. 


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Chicago, 111 ., 
December i6, 1936. 

Mr. E. V. Lanford, 

President Fourth National Bank, 
Kansas City, Mo. 

My Dear Old “Squirt”: 

What a glorious privilege it is 
to a working man to be able to take an 
evening off and spend it in solitude. 
I have quite willingly given this winter 
evening to musing by the fireside. As 
I sat half shrouded by the darkness 
of the room and gazed dreamingly 
into the fire I thought on Life. In 
some mysterious way I conjured up 
the fancy that that burning, roaring, 
fuming fire before me was like unto 
life in the youth. At that age his 


[ Page 71 ] 


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breast is burning with the fires of am- 
bition — fires that roar and fume and 
fill his ears with a strange, sweet mu- 
sic, deafening him to all cries of re- 
monstrance of the sluggard. And so 
the fire burns, and heats, and expands, 
and ere the dying glow comes this 
youth has done things. And done 
them for the simple reason that those 
furious fires were not to be quenched 
and gave him no rest until something 
was done. 

And now the fire has spent itself. 
The glowing heat dies down. One 
by one the livid embers turn a somber 
black and are lifeless. Here a faint 
sputter breaks out; there a blackening 
coal emits a fuming tongue of flame; 
a new light quivers through the dying 
mass and, for a moment, life again 


[ Page 72 ] 


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asserts itself. It is not for long, how- 
ever, for there’s a crackling and a 
crumbling and the once glowing mass 
is now a heap of gray ashes. So does 
the fire of youth spend itself in old age. 
Little by little the glowing heat of am- 
bition dies down. One by one the 
years fall away and the fiery youth 
turns somber in spirit and the call of 
time sounds a knell in his ear. In his 
childish old age he sputters and fumes 
against fate, and the light of youth 
again quivers through the withering 
frame. He seems as though he would 
live again. But there’s a cracking and 
crumbling of energies and the once 
glorious youth is now whitening ashes 
of old age and death. 

I was startled in my reverie by the 
falling of a chair, and I awoke to con- 


[ Page 73 ] 


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sciousness to find myself in darkness 
and the cold of a winter night. Simul- 
taneously with the vanishing of the 
fire a peal of thunder leapt from the 
night and went booming down the 
vault of heaven. A lurid flash of light- 
ning swept across the sky and rolled 
back the mantle of black. The solid 
cloud-banks were rent asunder and a 
flood of moonlight poured upon the 
storm-swept earth. I had sat all un- 
conscious of the gale that was sweep- 
ing over the lake. In a short while I 
again returned to thoughts of the fire 
and of life, as pictured by it. When I 
had seen the beautiful fire turned into a 
mere handful of gray ashes I asked 
myself the question, “What is the 
use? The fire is gone; the glow is 
spent ; the heat is vanished ; the energy 


[ Page 74 ] 


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is wasted; and all for what? Is it not 
also true of life? Is not all the toil, 
the sorrow, the sacrifice, the joy, the 
gain, the glory reduced at last to a 
handful of ashes, or death? Was the 
fire of any use? Is life of any use?” 

I was about to say no, when a faint 
noise at the door started me from my 
dream. In answer to the noise I found 
a poor, wet, hungry and half-dead 
sailor leaning against the door. I car- 
ried him in and by the light I found 
him to be an old friend of mine. I fed 
him and treated him kindly; and when 
he was ready to depart he told me of 
how his boat was wrecked in the gale. 
He said he was far out on the lake 
when the storm came down. His lights 
and compass were swept away ere he 
could save them. He was left in dark- 


[ Page 75 ] 


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ness, with no goal toward which to 
steer. After floundering about in the 
oncoming gale he discovered a faint 
light on the distant shore and imme- 
diately set out toward it. On nearing 
the shore he discovered the light as 
coming through a window of some- 
one’s house. He landed just as the 
clouds cleared away and he saw that 
the house was not far distant. And, 
for some strange reason, he said he 
felt he would find a welcome in that 
house. 

When he had finished his story and 
had departed I asked myself again, “Of 
what use was the fire?” Without the 
light of that fire shining as a beacon to 
the storm-tossed sailor he would never 
have reached shore alive. And when 
I thought of the life that the fire had 


[ Page 76 ] 


HARKING BACK 


guided to safety I answered, “Yes.” 
And then I thought of life and asked 
myself, “Of what use is life?” I finally 
found an answer in this wise : if the fire 
was a beacon that guided a storm- 
tossed sailor to safety, why then may 
my life not serve as a beacon to guide 
some storm-tossed soul to a home with 
God? Yes, after all, it is good, even 
though the fires of youth burn low as 
we grow older. And though we are 
given at last a mere handful of ashes, 
yet we should find a sweet solace in 
that our fires have not blazed and 
burned for naught. 

It is with a peculiar feeling of joy, 
and yet of sadness, that I call to mind 
that wondrous epithet, “Squirt,” which 
you won in college days. Just how it 
started I cannot recall. I suppose, 

[ Page 77 ] 


HARKING BACK 


though, it must have been on account 
of your remarkable ability to squirt re- 
partee on any and every occasion. 
Well, Squirt, I am getting to be an old 
man now, and as I grow older I find 
miyself turning back in my moods and, 
as it were, living in other times. I do 
not mean to say that the future holds 
no charm for me, oh! no, never that. 
But you know it is an old man’s way 
to forget himself occasionally and turn 
boy again. And if I turn boy again 
what part of my past life can hold 
richer treasures than those four years 
spent in college. 

Say, do you remember a game of 
football a bunch of us fellows played 
with a cocoanut one night in front of 
Chicora College? Great game, wasn’t 
it? Ah! well, suppose we don’t dwell 


[ Page 78 ] 


HARKING BACK 


on the dark side of things. Let’s talk 
of some of the good things we did 
while in college. Say, do you remem- 
ber one night you and Haddon and I 
went calling at G. F. C.? You and Had- 
don tried to play a great joke on me, 
but I fear you two got the worst of the 
bargain. Well, my Rubicon was 
crossed on that memorable night and I 
was free no more. Say, do you re- 
member — but there, now, my wife calls 

time on me and that means if I 

don’t respond. Good-night. 


[ Page 79 ] 


HARKING BACK 


EPILOGUE 

Dear Boys of 1909, 

Furman University, 

Greenville, S. C. 

How sad that I cannot meet 
with my old friends in their alumni 
gathering today. And though I can- 
not be there in person, I can, at least, 
be there with you in my thoughts. But 
why should I long to be there? For I 
am not numbered among you. I lack 
that small, rectangular piece of sheep- 
skin with its few letters thereon, its 
specimens of signatures, its seal and 
blue ribbon attached thereto, which 
would make me one of you. But I 
have it not, so woe is me. My heart, 
the most I can give, is with you today, 
and for always. Good-bye. 

Chicago, June 3, 1945. 


[ Page 80 ] 




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